Against All Odds
by AlaskanMal
Summary: Instead of returning to Narnia at the start of Prince Caspian, the Pevensies end up in Panem just in time for the reaping of the 74th Hunger Games and find that their names have been entered. Apologies if anyone is out of character. Please review!
1. Definitely Not Narnia

**A/N: This is my first fic, so I can't imagine it's very good. Anyways, hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia OR The Hunger Games.**

* * *

"You're welcome," Edmund said, dumping the last of my things at my feet.

I glared at him. "I had it sorted," I grumbled, stepping away from the bench. I turned and stared at the train tracks, seething.

"What was it this time?" Susan asked exasperatedly. I could picture her rolling her eyes all too well in my head. Twisting my neck to look over my shoulder, I answered, "He bumped me."

"So you hit him?" Lucy sounded bewildered.

"_No_," I replied. "After he bumped me, they tried to make me apologize. That's when I hit him."

"Really," Susan said, a tad condescending, "Is it that hard to just _walk away_?"

"I shouldn't _have _to!" I snapped, spinning to face her. "I mean, don't you ever get tired of being treated like a kid?"

"We _are _kids," Edmund pointed out.

"Well, I wasn't always," I muttered, returning to the bench. "It's been a year. How long does he expect us to wait?"

"I think it's time to accept that we live _here_," Susan said. "There's no use pretending any different."

It'd been a year since we'd accidentally fallen out of the wardrobe at Professor Kirke's house in the country, children again. "Of course you'll get back to Narnia," the old man had sworn to us, "but it'll happen when you're not looking for it." Indeed, but after a year of _not _looking we had yet to return to our true home. I had been High King of Narnia and had fought in many battles, my enemies ranging from ogres to giants to minotaurs, yet the hardest thing I had ever done was be thrust back into England and treated as one of many insignificant schoolchildren.

"Oh _no_," Susan groaned. She turned her face towards us. "Quick. Pretend you're talking to me." Her blue eyes were stretched wide, almost pleading.

"But we _are _talking to you," Edmund reasoned. He craned his neck to look over our sister's head, trying to scope out what was alarming her so.

"Ow!" cried Lucy, jumping up from her seat.

"Quiet, Lu," Susan reprimanded.

"Something pinched me!" my youngest sister wailed, just as I felt a sharp twinge on my arm. "Hey! Would you stop?" I shouted at Edmund, leaping from my seat as well. My brother simply stared at me. "I didn't do anything!" he retorted.

"What _is _that?" Susan shrieked, jerking to her feet.

"It feels like _magic_!" Lucy exclaimed, grinning broadly, her eyes alight with excitement.

"Quick! Everyone hold hands!" Susan shouted above the roar of a train pulling into the station.

"I am _not_ holding your hand!" Edmund yelled.

"Yes, you are!" I hollered back, seizing his wrist and gripping it tightly. The station seemed to disintegrate around us - ceiling tiles rained down, posters ripped from the walls. Yet no one around us seemed to notice. _The station is going to collapse_! I thought. Through the windows of the speeding train, I could see glimpses of something else - a forest, glowing with lush, green summer leaves, calling the Lantern Waste to mind. As the last of the station fell away, the four of us were left standing surrounded by tall, thick trees. A smile spread across my face.

"Where _are _we?" Edmund asked.

"Where do you _think_?" Lucy shot back. She spun in a slow circle, dreamily admiring the foliage above us. "Oh, I do believe I remember this place. We're not that far from Mr Tumnus's!" With that, she fled from the clearing, tearing her hat from her head and tossing it into the undergrowth. "Lucy, wait!" I called after her, running to catch up, the others following suit. We stumbled through the woods, tripping over tree roots and shrubs until we encountered a wire fence.

"That's strange," Edmund said. "I don't remember any fences in the Lantern Waste."

Each of us slid between the metal wires, one by one. We continued to walk, though more cautiously, scrutinizing every little detail of the forest around us. Slowly, the trees thinned out, and then disappeared altogether. Instead of the verdure that had previously surrounded us, we found ourselves looking upon some sort of village. All the buildings were squat and gray, constructed from worn old boards. A flock of dead-eyed children marched as one along a hard-packed dirt path. No one spoke or even so much as let their eyes from directly ahead.

"Wherever we are," I observed, "it's not Narnia."

* * *

There was an awful moment where we stood, staring at the herd of children, trying to fathom where we had ended up, before a stranger in a white suit came along and shoved us into the mix. "Get moving," he ordered gruffly. I would have challenged him - how _dare _he lay hands on the Kings and Queens of Narnia! - if we weren't pressed onwards by the cluster of kids around us. It was much like falling into a river; the current was relentless, carrying us where it desired to go. Glancing around, I realized how our school uniforms stuck out like sore thumbs against the subdued shades of clothing these children were sporting, and felt self-conscious.

"Where are we going?" Edmund hissed into my ear.

A young girl to my right overheard his question. "The reaping, of course," she replied, confused. "Are you two all right?"

"Fine, thank you," I answered quickly, tugging Edmund to the side. "Act like you know what's going on," I whispered. "At least for now, anyway."

"But Peter . . ." he trailed off, staring ahead in shock. "What the . . . ?"

I turned to look and then, too, found myself awed. We'd reached some kind of central square which was positively _crawling _with children of every age, standing in roped-off areas before an impressive stage. Greater still, the massive square to the right of it showing moving images of what was happening around us. _Screens_! I thought to myself. _Like at the cinema_! These people must have been rich to have a cinema screen in their town square!

The sea of children parted around us and filed towards different sections of the square. The four of us must have looked profoundly confused for one of the white-clothed men with strange helmets to approach us. "How old are you, boy?" he demanded.

"Sixteen," I answered confidently, while inside I was thinking, _twenty-nine_.

"This way." The man pulled me away from Susan, Edmund and Lucy and guided me (rather roughly, I might add) toward a group of boys my age. Each of them gaped at me with disbelief and a reasonable amount of jealousy. As I shifted among them to find a place to stand, one of them reached out and touched the sleeve of my blazer. "Are you _rich_?" he asked softly. Before I had a chance to answer, however, an alarmingly pale woman wearing all pink half-skipped across the stage and tapped a microphone twice.

"Welcome! Welcome, welcome!" she cried, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!"

_What_?

Everyone around was dead silent. I looked over their heads, searching for my siblings. I found Susan nearby, her face mirroring the confusion and concern that I felt. She shrugged almost imperceptibly, and then rotated back to face the stage. "Now," the woman continued. "Before we begin, we have a very special film brought to you all the way from the _Capitol_." She turned and gestured to the cinema screen, where the feature began to play. An image of skulls appeared, and it felt as if I'd swallowed something very, very cold. Whatever was going on, it couldn't be good.

_"War, terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child. This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained."_

Images of war played across the screen, but nothing like the battles I had seen and fought while in Narnia. Instead, it was the kind of combat I had imagined my father facing when he was drafted, the kind that woke me from nightmares long before we were evacuated to the country.

_"And then came the peace, hard fought, sorely won. A people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitors were __defeated, we swore as a nation we would never know this treason again. And so it was decreed, that each year, the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute, one young man and woman, to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness."  
_

My mind worked slowly to process what I was seeing. Fight to the death. Fight to the death. Fight to the death. This country - Panem, or whatever it was called - each year would condemn two _children _to fight to the death. I began to search the crowd again, this time searching for my two youngest siblings. Lucy was nowhere to be seen. Edmund was standing amongst thirteen-year-old boys. My heart sunk when I found him. What if they chose _him_?

I had trained and fought battles for fifteen years - I was more than capable to defend those whom I loved. But I was utterly powerless against this.  
_"This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."_

The woman in pink returned to the microphone. "I just love that," she said, searching the crowd for any signs of agreement. Still, no one spoke. No one reacted to her words.

"Now," she announced. "The time has come to select one . . ._ courageous _young man and woman for the honour of representing District 12 in the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games."

She was still grinning broadly as she stepped back from the microphone. "As usual, ladies first." She walked with short, quick steps across the stage to one of the two glass bowls, her high heels clicking to punctuate the silence. She reached in, her hand hovering over the sea of paper until it finally dove down and plucked a single slip. As she hurried back to center stage and unfolded the sheet in her hands, the crowd around me drew a collective breath. _Not Susan_, I thought. _Not Lucy_. It occurred to me then that our names couldn't _possibly _be in the mix - after all, we'd only just gotten here. Encouraged by this, I began to relax.

Then her voice rung out again, loud and clear, a she carefully pronounced the name that was written:

"Primrose Everdeen."

The reaction was immediate but so subdued it frightened me. Like the Red Sea, the crowd parted for a slight, small girl with her hair parted into two braids not too far from where I was standing. Her face was devoid of all colour, and with trembling hands she tucked the back of her blouse into her skirt. She took a shaky step towards the platform. Then another.

"Prim!" The strangled cry came from further back, and in one unanimous motion, everyone turned to look at it's origin. A girl in a blue dress was chasing after Primrose Everdeen. A few men in white leaped forth to stop her, but she fought them off with impressive strength. "I VOLUNTEER!" she screamed, shoving the last of them away. "I volunteer as tribute!"

"I . . ." the woman in pink stammered, clearly surprised. "I do believe we have a volunteer."

The volunteer rushed forward and hugged Primrose Everdeen. "Prim, go find Mom," she said, and the smaller girl shrieked, "No! No!"

"Prim, go find Mom right now." Her voice broke as she reiterated her command. _It must be her sister_, I thought bitterly. It made me feel sick.

A young man managed to slip past the men in white and scoop Primrose into his arms. "Up you go, Catnip," he murmured, carrying the screaming child away.  
The girl walked with astounding resolve up the steps to the stage, and was guided by the pink woman to the microphone. "What's your name, dear?" she asked.

"Katniss Everdeen," the girl replied, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Well, I bet my hat that was your sister," said the woman.

"Yes."

"Let's have a big hand for our very first volunteer, Katniss Everdeen!" The lady started to clap manically, but no one else joined in. Instead, as one, each person in the crowd touched three fingers to their lips and then extended them out towards Katniss. I watched them curiously, pondering over what this gesture could mean.

The woman in pink didn't miss a beat. "And now, for the boys." She shuffled over to the opposite glass bowl and fished around in there for a name. She uncovered one, and truly relished the moment of drawing it out.

Once she returned to the microphone, she held it out in front of her and read it aloud, her voice strong and clear as day.

"Peter Pevensie."


	2. Tributes of District 12

_What? How? Why? _My name wasn't in there. I'm not from here. How is this even _possible_?  
My mouth was dry, my eyes locked in a straight stare. People murmured, confused as to who exactly Peter Pevensie _is_. I took one step forward and immediately a path formed in front of me, allowing me to walk without much difficulty towards the stage. Or, rather without much _more _difficulty, because my knees had begun to shake so badly it was hard to stand.

"_Peter_!" It was Lucy's voice, crying out from somewhere nearby. I couldn't see her from where I was, but I took great comfort in knowing she was safe. I mounted the stairs one by one, examining each individually as I stepped on it. "Come along, dear," the woman in pink beckoned, wagging her finger at me. I stumbled across the platform and she grabbed my shoulder, her long magenta nails burrowing into my flesh. I wanted to rip my arm away from her.

"Hurry up, shake hands," she encouraged, growing impatient. Katniss was eying me carefully, but she outstretched her hand no less. I gripped it with mine and gave it a quick, polite shake.

"I present to you," the woman said, "the tributes of District 12!"

Again, no one clapped. I met Edmund's gaze momentarily, but he just shook his head slightly. I was inclined to be frustrated with him, for there wouldn't have been a way for me to avoid this, but any anger I had had was lost in the fear that consumed me as the lady in pink took Katniss and I by our arms and led us off the stage and into the open Jaw-like doors of a government building.

I was deposited in a room - paneled with wood, a plate-glass window lending me a view to an alleyway behind the edifice.

I had no idea what I was doing there, but I took advantage of the privacy, sitting down in one of the rickety chairs and burying my face in my hands. I had to _think_.

We were not in Narnia. We were in some place called Panem. Here, there was something called the Hunger Games in which twenty-four boys and girls would fight to the death. Somehow, someway, by design or not, I had been chosen. There was nothing I could do.

The door burst open. "You have three minutes," said one of the men in white, who must have been standing right outside. Susan, Edmund and Lucy rushed in all at once as if the door was merely a dam separating us. "Oh, _Peter_," Lucy wailed, throwing her arms around my waist. "What are we going to do?"

Susan reached for our sister's hand and twined their fingers together. "Listen," she said to me. "I don't know what's going on or why we're here, but you need to know that whatever happens, you have the advantage. After all, you've got fifteen years' experience on a battlefield."

"Something tells me that isn't going to help me here, Susan."

She frowned. "How so?"

"Well it's not as if I've had much practice this past year," I explained. "And they're kids, not ogres."

"Kids who're going to be trying to kill you."

"Maybe they don't give you weapons."

"Maybe they do."

We stared at each other for a moment before I finally gave in. "Look after Lu for me, would you?"

Her face softened. "Of course."

Edmund looked up. "I'm so sorry, Peter. I should have volunteered for you, like that other girl. I should have-"

I grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug. "Don't say that," I ordered. "Don't you _ever _say that."

"But I-"

"Remember all those years ago, at the train station, when I promised Mum I'd keep you safe?" I reminded him, and he looked up with tear-filled eyes. "Well, I intend to do just that. Better I go than any of you."

"How do you suppose your name got in there? It's not as if we've ever been here before," Edmund wondered aloud.

"Promise you'll try to win?" Lucy piped up from where she was still grasping Susan's hand. "Really, really try?

"I will. But in the meantime, you should try to get home. I reckon this isn't a very welcoming place."

"You're mad. We're not going anywhere without you," Edmund said factually.

The door burst open, and the guard standing outside barked, "You're out of time." He seized my brother by the arm and began to herd all of them out of the room. "We love you, Peter!" Susan called as they dragged her away. "We'll be here when you get back!"

Then the door slammed shut, and I was alone once more.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the short chapter. I was away for a few days, and when I got home today and saw the reviews I got all excited and wanted to post the next bit. So tada. I'll make the next one longer, I promise.**


	3. Further Up, Further In

**A/N: Hello again! Here is chapter three. Please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia OR the Hunger Games. I forgot to put that on the last chapter.**

* * *

They took us to a train station in a car, or at least I thought it was a car. It was like something from a science fiction story back in England, futuristic and strange. The train was far more so. Instead of compartments, there was a large dining room lined with white-clothed tables, each one adorned with silver trays and platters covered in food.

"Are we allowed to eat?" I asked absently. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't hungry in the least, and I could still feel the sandwich Mum had packed me in my pocket. But the selection of treats was so inviting I simply had to ask.

"Why, of course!" exclaimed the woman in pink, whose name was Effie. "Have anything you like! Everything here is at your disposal."

Most of the food was unrecognizable to me, but it smelled delicious nonetheless. I selected what I trusted to be a biscuit and began to gnaw on the corner as Effie went off to look for who she called "Haymitch, our mentor". I took this as an opportunity to try to acquire information. I'd picked up a bit during the drive over, but not enough to thoroughly explain what was going on. We were traveling to the Capitol where we would train for a few days in preparation for this sadistic Hunger Games.

"What's that?" I asked Katniss, who was sitting in a blue armchair and trying her best to look bored. I pointed at a golden pin she was wearing. It was a bird ringed by a circle, and I was pretty sure there was an arrow in its mouth.

"It's my token," she replied dully, brushing the tip of the bird's wing with her finger. "Don't you have one?"

For a moment I froze, and then without thinking I tugged up my left sleeve to show the glass-faced wristwatch my father presented me for my birthday back in April. "It was my grandfather's" I blurted out, even though it wasn't true.

"Mine was a gift," Katniss said softly. "From a friend."

I sat down in the chair next to her. It was made of a soft fabric, quite probably velvet, but not nearly as fancy as the upholstery that outfitted Cair Paravel. Still, I ran my hand over the material and tried to forget about the Hunger Games for a few moments until the compartment door slid open (how does it _do _that?) and a tall, clumsy man stumbled in. "Ah," he said, raising a bottle of amber liquor. "Look at you two!"

Carefully, I glanced over at Katniss to survey her reaction. She remained impassive, staring right at who I supposed was Haymitch. "What about us?"

"Last year I had two sniveling idiots who cried the whole way to the Capitol," Haymitch slurred, taking another lengthy pull from the bottle.

Katniss bit her lip. Had she known the tributes in question?

"I trust you know the way to your rooms?" Haymitch asked incoherently. "Why don't you go freshen up for dinner." He waved us away with his free hand.

I only had to ask one of the plentiful attendants the way to my compartment, which was larger than my bedroom in Finchley. It has its own television, something I'd only heard of mentioned on the radio, and a large feather bed. There was a chest of drawers as well, full of finer clothes than my uniform. It had its own washroom, with what I assumed was a shower. We didn't have one of those.

I changed quickly out of my England clothes and rooted around in the drawers for something more suited to the country around me. Then, settling on the bed, I began to fool around with the television set, trying to figure out how it worked. Within ten minutes I'd managed to pull the Highlights of Hunger Games Past up on the screen.

I wasn't summoned to supper for another hour or so, and during that time I watched this programme intently, paying meticulous attention to the order of things. First, the opening ceremonies, in which all the so-called 'tributes' ride in on chariots dressed in costumes. There were three days of training, and at the very end of the last one there were private sessions, during which all the tributes would be ranked by people referred to as the 'Gamemakers'. The next evening there would be televised interviews with each of us, and then the following morning the games would begin.

It took me a few moments to piece together that the games were, in fact, broadcast on live television. I pictured Edmund and Lucy, back in District 12, watching me fight to the death with other people. Not the beasts we faced during our reign in Narnia, but _children_.

It started when the tributes were raised onto metal plates through some kind of elevator system, and then a countdown began. Sixty seconds later, a gong rang out and the tributes rushed towards what was referred to as the Cornucopia, which was full of supplies. There was an awful bloodbath, after which only fourteen survived. Over the course of several days, the tributes struggled to survive in a thick jungle, hunting one another, killing one another, until only the victor remained. When the programme ended, I was left staring at the black screen, my mind whirring away to process this onslaught of information. This is what I was going to have to face in just five short days.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Effie Trinket, our escort, tried to keep up conversation, but no one was up for talking. Haymitch was so inebriated that he couldn't say a coherent word if his life depended on it, and Katniss and I had both fallen into a sullen phase, thinking our way out of this steel trap we've fallen into. Or rather she was, because I was piecing everything together.

"Come on, now," Effie said. "Save room for dessert." I wasn't even hungry for dinner, and I might've told her this if it didn't seem rude. I pushed the strange food around on my plate to make it look as if I'd taken a few bites, but was relieved when the Capitol attendant came to take it away. After the meal, I returned to my compartment, collapsed face down on the bed and fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke late and missed at least half of breakfast. When I arrived in the dining car, Katniss was arguing with our mentor. I could see that she had driven a knife between his hand and the butter. He glared at her, his eyes poisonous, before announcing, "You know how you win, sweetheart? You get sponsors." He flicked his gaze to me. "Siddown," he barked. "Stay a while." It alarmed me so much I dropped into the chair next to Katniss without even flinching.

"Now," Haymitch began, "to get sponsors, you've got to charm people into liking you. Which is our first problem." He glanced at Katniss, who scowled even further.

"That," he continued, "and scoring high in your private sessions will convince people you're worth betting on."

The train jostled slightly, and I spilled some of my tea onto the white tablecloth. The windows had gone completely dark - not like nighttime, but rather abyss, devoid of any hint of light. "Where are we?" I asked.

"The Capitol." Effie gave a little shriek and rushed over to the window. "Home sweet home." I stood to follow instinctively just as the train rolled out of what I assumed was a tunnel, and we got a panoramic view of a glistening, futuristic city ringed around a crystalline lake. It was stunning, really, as much as a city can be stunning. Yet still, it was in no way comparable to the eastern sea Cair Paravel overlooked, or the deep hues of red and yellow of the Lantern Waste in autumn. I longed to go back there, especially now, when things had taken such a terrible turn. Even England would suffice, I suppose.

I hand fell on my shoulder, startling me. I twisted my neck to look at Haymitch, who stood behind me and stared absently out the window as the city rushed by. "We're here."


	4. Girl on Fire

**A/N: Hi there! Thanks to those of you who've reviewed/favourited the last few chapters. You rock! Anyways, I have school starting up this coming Tuesday (high school, ugh), so my updates will be less frequent. Still, I am determined! Remember: 1 positive review = 1 new chapter.**

**EDIT: I revised this chapter. Thanks to SpiritWolf14 for the VERY true comment about Cinna being Katniss's stylist - I completely agree. I didn't really have a notion of Portia's personality, so this is how I imagine her. Hope you like it! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia OR The Hunger Games**

* * *

"Oh, dear, dear, dear," Tobias clucked, examining my fingernails. "How awful." He was marveling at them from every angle, trying to find a way to salvage the damaged nail beds.

Within a short while of our arrival at the Capitol, all twenty-four of us tributes had been shipped off to the Remake Center where prep teams had now been grooming us for more than three hours. I'd had my hair trimmed, though I didn't think it was necessary, and part of my eyebrows ripped out of my face. Now they'd gone to work on my nails, which I'd gnawed to stubs since we'd returned from Narnia a year ago. I wasn't aware that they were seen as ugly until now. The most effort I'd ever seen anyone put into fingernails was when Susan painted hers bright red. Sometimes, when I was in a particularly good mood, I'd help her with her right hand, since it would always turn out messy if she attempted it herself.

"You're truly a terrible biter," commented Ophelia, another member of my prep team.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"I guess these will have to do," Lukas sighed. "We'll manage." For the next twenty minutes they went about filing my nails into congruent shapes until they were, at the very least, _tolerable_. "Try not to bite them," Tobias practically begged as the other two fled in search of my stylist, someone named Portia. "Otherwise they'll look just awful for your interview." With that, he disappeared after the others.

While I waited for them to return, I took to fiddling around with the hem of the robe I was wearing. It was thin and blue, not unlike the night-shirts we wore on hot nights at Cair Paravel, but it had a texture similar to that of paper. I'd managed to stab my index finger through it by the time the door opened again.

I immediately assumed it was Portia - tall woman with puffy red hair, bronze skin and green eyelashes. At first I was startled by her appearance, but then relaxed slightly. At least she didn't appear to have some strange surgery done, unlike those mutilated vultures who'd taken a pair of tweezers to my face.

"Hi, Peter," she greeted. "I'm Portia, your stylist." She extended his hand for me to shake. Warily, I accepted, then quickly tugged my hand away. I picked madly at my cuticles, in spite of Tobias's wishes.

Portia pulled up a chair and sat down, her back rigid as if her spine was a metal rod. "It's truly awful, that this is happening to someone as handsome as you." She shook her head.

My head snapped up. She was the first Capitol citizen who'd showed even a remote disliking of this Hunger Games. When we'd gotten off the train, we'd been swarmed by hordes of people with oddly coloured hair who simply wanted to see us for themselves. On the drive from the station to the Remake Center, we'd ridden in a car with darkened windows to grant us even temporary anonymity from the anarchy around us. Her disapproval was for all the wrong reasons, but it was a little comforting to know that the Games wasn't universally loved.

"What do you mean?" I asked carefully.

"Well, getting chosen at the reaping," she said by way of explanation. "Dying in the arena."

_Thank you for your vote of confidence_, I thought. Did anyone think I was a contender?

"Anyways, as you know, the tribute parade is tonight, and I'm working with your district partner's stylist to come up with a costume idea for the two of you."

"All right."

"Traditionally, tributes are dressed to reflect upon their district's main industry," Portia said institutionally. "Since District 12's is coal, our options are . . . _relatively _limited. The purpose of the opening ceremonies is to make an impression with the sponsors. I trust you know that."

"Haymitch told us," I replied. "This morning."

"Yes. Well, quite honestly, no one is going to remember you if you're dressed in a coal miner's outfit. _That _is quite overdone." She drummed his fingers against the metal table I was sitting on. "But Cinna and I have discussed that. We've got something else in mind."

"Are you _sure _this is safe?" Katniss questioned sceptically. Cinna - her stylist - and Portia stood before us, holding two flaming torches. "Of course," Cinna told her. "It's synthetic. You won't feel a thing."

We were in the lowest level of the Remake Center, standing by our chariot. The opening ceremonies would begin momentarily, and we'd ride in the cart to the City Circle where the president would announce the beginning of the Hunger Games. This was the first formal occasion besides the reaping that the tributes were televised. If Susan, Edmund and Lucy hadn't found a way home, this would be the first they'd see of me since. The thought made my stomach turn. I had to act brave, despite the fact that inside, I was terrified. Of being lit on fire. Of being forced to fight to the death. The fear was that of a child, not of a seasoned warrior and High King, but it was very real nonetheless.

"So we won't _feel _it as we're cooked to a crisp," I muttered to myself, something I'd been doing all too much as of late, and Katniss laughed so loudly and suddenly it seemed forced.

"Ready?" I heard Portia's voice behind me. It seemed sort of pointless to respond - she was going to light me on fire either way. I expected a rush of pain, the sudden shock of a burn, but instead I felt nothing. Or next to nothing, really, because there was a slight tickling sensation, like gentle cat's paws lapping over your feet.

"You look _stunning_!" A member of Katniss's prep team cried, clasping her hands together, a melodramatic gesture of endearment.

"Thank you." Katniss smiled sweetly.

Music began to play over some kind of radio system, and our stylists shoved us onto the chariot. "Keep your chins up!" Cinna instructed, and I tilted my head towards the ceiling as the doors swung open and we were wheeled out into the streets. The roads were lined with roaring crowds, waving and tossing flowers and hats and blowing kisses. They _loved _us, or at least as much as anyone could love someone they would watch in something as awful as the Hunger Games. They cheered for me now, but in a few short days they'd be cheering for my blood, and the blood of my fellow tributes.

I could hear Haymitch's voice in my head. _You've got to charm people into liking you_.

A little more confident, I stood straighter and waved back. The crowd's response was immediate, the one unending cheer intensifying. I felt a tug on my sleeve. "Maybe we should hold hands," Katniss suggested cautiously. "I mean, for the audience."

Ah. So I wasn't the only one taking Haymitch's 'advice' seriously. "All right," I said. We fitted our fingers together and then, as if that alone wasn't enough, lifted our linked hands high above our heads. The crowd loved it and, as I glanced quickly around, we held the spotlight on the massive cinema screen that served as a backdrop to what I assumed was the City Circle. The chariots skirted the edge, and the whole time District Twelve held the attention of all the spectators. Katniss caught a fragrant red rose that had been tossed from the crowd, and held it up high for all to see. The applause was nearly deafening and continued until what I supposed was the anthem concluded, and the chariots rolled to a stop before a massive podium.

A narrow, white-haired stepped up to the microphone. I supposed this was the infamous President Snow I heard Katniss mention on the train. "Welcome!" he shouted over the crowd. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" That earned another cheer.

"To our tributes, welcome. We salute your, your courage, your sacrifice." And just like that the crowd had gone completely silent. Hanging on his last word, anticipating his next. For a moment, I wondered if they were acknowledging the fact that in short while, twenty-three of us would be dead.

"We wish you the best of luck!" President Snow finished, and was instantly drowned out by the roars of the people who would eagerly watch me die.


	5. Steer Clear

**A/N: Here's chapter five. I just want to apologize if the story seems at all rushed. I'm really eager to get to the arena part. As always, one good review = one new chapter. Hope you enjoy! Again, I don't own Narnia OR The Hunger Games. There's something wrong with my enter button so I can't put that on a new line. Sorry.**

* * *

Training didn't start until ten in the morning, but I slept right up until nine thirty, wandered into the dining room in my night-clothes and ate buttered rolls for my breakfast. Effie scolded me on my manners multiple times, but I was beyond caring. Her reprimands were growing dull.

Haymitch was the one who roused me from my apathetic stupor. "Look alive, Pevensie. Or else you'll be the first to go in the arena."

The bluntness of his comment was startling, enough to snap me out of it. I finished off the rest of my bread and rushed back to my room to change. In the time that I was gone, someone had come by and laid out the clothes I was to wear. Black shirt with a stripe of red on the sleeves and equally dark pants. I changed quickly and rushed to meet my team by the elevators.

Training took place below ground level of the Training Center. We were the next-to-last to arrive, and the group had just begun to assemble. According to the head instructor, Atala, we were welcome to move from rotation to rotation as we pleased. "Remember," she said gravely, "Pay attention to the survival skills. Everyone wants to get their hands on a weapon, but in reality exposure is just as lethal."

Last night had dinner, Katniss and I had decided to train together, so as we moved from fire building (something I exceeded in, after so many cold nights on long campaigns to Calormene or Archeland or even more abroad), we stopped along the way to argue.

"I'd like to drop by the edible plants station," I told her. I remembered that Narnian berries and leaves differed from those of England, and I assumed even more so from Panem's. Katniss scoffed, "It's not that difficult. I know every edible plant in the book. It'd be a waste of time." Her face changed when she saw my expression.

"I don't. I apologize if that disappoints you."

Without another word, we walked to the edible plants stations, where the instructor had us sorting berries into two categories: poisonous and safe. It was difficult - I had never been particularly outdoorsy as a child, and most of these berries I'd never seen. Of course, it was possible they were unique to Panem's wildlife. Still, so many of them looked alike that I kept mixing them up, despite the fact that the instructor gave us tips on differentiating them.

Afterward, we moved on to knot-tying. This I was good at, so as I practiced my slip knots I moved away from the sparse group and went to sit on one of the benches around the room. As I looped the rope for the umpteenth time, it was torn from my hands quite suddenly. "Where's my knife?" roared one of the other tributes, who was towering over me. His face was contorted in rage. "What did you do with it?"

"I didn't touch your knife," I said respectfully. "Perhaps you left it somewhere else?"

"It was right here!" the tribute - his armband said District 2 - growled. His fist closed around the collar of my shirt as he hauled me to my feet. "Why'd you steal it?" His face was just inches from mine.

"_I. Didn't. Touch. It._" I enunciated.

"Liar!" the boy from District 2 shouted. A couple of guards rushed over to separate us. They pried his hands from my collar and led him away. "Watch your back, District 12! In the arena, you're the first one I get!"

He stopped fighting the guards as they marched him away. Me, my knees grew weak from adrenaline and forced me to sit back down. I swallowed hard and fought to suppress the fear that grew inside of me. I had never seen someone so blatantly furious before. The hatred that burned in his eyes was truly petrifying. Where did he get such anger? Surely not from me - I'd done nothing wrong, and even then, taking his knife wasn't such a serious offense.

"Are you okay?" I whipped around to face Katniss, who'd appeared with her rope. Her face displayed genuine concern. It was a drastic change compared to the sullen expression that usually soured her features. "Yes," I answered. "I'm fine. Thank you."

"Careers," she said absently.

"Pardon?"

"They're Careers," she said, and took in my blank expression. "Do you live under a rock, Peter? Careers are from Districts 1, 2 and 4. They train at a special academy until they're eighteen. Then they volunteer for the Games." She jerked her chin at the boy from 2. "I heard his name's Cato. Best to keep out of his way. Come on. Let's go check out knife throwing."

I kept my eyes on the Careers, though. From what I understood, it was illegal to condition and prepare for the Hunger Games. I supposed that the Capitol was willing to make the exception if it granted them a more interesting show. The boy from 2 - Cato - was as lethal as any. I watched as he decapitated a training dummy, then thrust his sword through the heart of another. It gave me chills. When I fought at the Battle of Beruna, I was mediocre at best, but Cato was of a whole new order.

I'd never thrown knives before. It wasn't easy - sometimes the blade wouldn't even connect with the target, if it was weak enough. It took several throws for me to get a good solid stick whereas Katniss did it on the first try. _Luck_, I thought, but as she pulled it off three more times I began to grow doubtful. "Where'd you learn to do that?" I asked.

She picked up a fourth knife. "Dunno," she replied, throwing it. It buried itself in the dummy's heart. I threw a few more knifes and managed to hit the doll's arm and shoulder a few times, but nothing close to a fatal injury. "I'm hopeless at this," I admitted.

"Well, then, what _are _you good at?" she asked.

My face grew red. "I don't know." A lie, yes, but a much-needed one. If I showed immediate skill at sword fighting, it would raise questions. Which meant that I'd either have to come up with fake reason as to _why _I was so good, or pretend to learn over the next two days.

She sighed, a little too exasperated to seem sympathetic. "Well, you'll find something, I'm sure."

That 'something' was not building shelters, either. When we were on campaign in Narnia, we'd always had our tents to sleep in. I'd never built a proper lean-to before, and based on how I did during the training sessions, it was likely I never would.

By the time we returned to our floor for supper, I hadn't gotten anywhere. I was terribly homesick, but for England or Narnia I could tell which, and because of it I was in a foul mood. I spent most of the meal sulking and shoveling food. Effie was horrified at my manners. "Peter, at least use your napkin!" she insisted,, pointing at the bit of fabric folded into some kind of fan. I ignored her, and dragged my index finger around the inside of my plate to scoop up the leftover gravy.

"Just so we know what shenanigans you're up to," Haymitch said, "what skill do you plan on using during your private sessions with the Gamemakers?"

"Archery," Katniss said instantly. "I can hunt."

"Good. Remember: stay away from that during group training," Haymitch said. "We don't want to reveal your talent to any of the other tributes _before _the arena, now do we? No, of course not. What about you, Peter?"

I began to tear a slice of bread into pieces. I wasn't going to tell him that I could swordfight and wasn't too bad at shooting either, provided the arrows were the right length for my arms. But I assumed questions would be asked. After all, there was cause to hunt in District 12, but not cause to pointlessly spar.

"I can fight," I blurted, without the consent of my brain. "With a sword, I mean. I can fight."

Haymitch, Katniss, Effie and all the stylists and prep teams aimed their surprised and quizzical stares at me. "Where on earth would you learn to do _that_?" Effie asked.

_I knew it!_ "My brother and I, we used to fence. When we were little. With sticks." The lie tumbled out of my mouth almost effortlessly. "How different can sword fighting be, really?"

Haymitch nodded slowly. "All right, then. So you two, steer clear of archery and sword fighting. Save those for your private sessions. Heaven knows you'll need all the help you can get."

Not only did we avoid our two best skills, we walked in wide circles around them when moving from activity station to activity station. I managed to behead a dummy that morning with a spear, and I learned I didn't have a bad arm for throwing. "Impressive," Katniss commented dryly from where she was watching me hurl spears at the false humans lined up against the wall. She picked up one as well, hefted it, and sent it flying. It skewered one of the dummies through the shoulder. A hit like that wouldn't kill instantly, but without treatment from healers it would prove fatal if given a little time.

"Nice shot," I told her with a smile. It was hard to believe that in a few short days, we'd be working hard to kill each other.

What would Susan, Edmund and Lucy make of that, of my killing other people's children? As High King of Narnia, I slew many foes, but never a human child. Now, I wouldn't have a choice.

I could picture Susan's face all too well, should I return. Lucy and Edmund would be thrilled to see me, no doubt, but her brow would crease with disapproval, she'd withdraw ever so slightly. She'd welcome me back with a warm smile and a hug, but there would be distance. She wouldn't forgive me, even if letting the other tributes live would cost me my own life. After all, she was Queen Susan the Gentle.

At lunch, all the tributes feasted in a communal dining hall just off the training gym. The Careers tributes gravitated towards each other, but I sat at a table in the corner, alone but for my thoughts. I was still somewhat in shock about being chosen for the Hunger Games, still desperately trying to work out how my name had ended up in that reaping ball in the first place. But it seemed that the answer was growing further and further away the more I thought about it.

During training that afternoon, I tried to get a better sense of my competitors. The Careers were now my greatest enemies. District 4's tributes weren't particularly concerning, seeing as both of them seemed rather slight not only in build but in motive as well, but the kids from Districts 1 and 2 were positively lethal. I'd seen both Cato and the boy from 1 – Marvel – throw spears and strike a dummy point-blank from fifteen yards or so. Clove, from 2, never missed with the throwing knives. The girl from District 1, Glimmer – ugh, of all things to name a child – didn't show exceptional promise in any one area, but rather excelled in all of them.

Aside from them, there were those from District 11, Thresh and Rue, who Katniss had taken a particular liking to. There were those from 10, nothing special, though the boy did have a lame leg and was the spitting image of Edmund. It was a little eerie, actually.

I pretty much overlooked the Tributes from 3, 5, 6, 7 and 9. None of them seemed to be dazzling the Gamemakers with some hidden skill, and I was taller and quite probably stronger than most of them. We would be scored based on our private sessions, or so Haymitch told me, so I reserved my final judgement for them. But they weren't making that much of an impression. Who knows? Perhaps, in a few days' time, the girl from 7 could have me pinned down, a knife ready to slit my throat.

The third day of training, they began calling us out for our private sessions just as lunch drew to a close. Boys went before girls, in the numerical order of the districts, which meant that I would go next to last. Sessions varied in length, I'm assuming based on what tributes had to offer.

The room emptied slowly. Some of the tributes seemed nervous; babbling mindlessly, biting their fingernails, pacing. Others, namely the Careers, seemed to anticipate their turn with a sick eagerness. Were they excited to get into the arena as well? Finally, about ten minutes after Rue from 11 was called, a Capitol attendant returned and read the next name off a sheet of paper. "Peter Pevensie, District Twelve."

I stood up, but before I left, I turned back to Katniss. "Good luck," I told her. She raised her head and stared at me, looking surprised. She'd gotten to the point where we could no longer be friendly with each other, not so close to the actual Games. "Thanks," she murmured, picking her nails again.

The Capitol attendant took my arm and led me towards the gym, not even caring to be gentle. I let him, staring straight ahead. Of all things that had happened since my arrival at the Capitol, this would be among the easiest to conquer.


	6. Talent Show

**A/N: I'M SORRY about the late chapter. I have three excuses: writer's block, my addiction to House, and this little thing called high school. I'll try and update more often now that I've gotten back into the rhythm of school every day and worked out some plot holes.**

**Also, thanks to BrittneyGlambertAlsoZeldaFan , who reviewed, like, five consecutive times.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games OR Narnia. But when I was standing at the subway station yesterday and the train rolled in, I pretended I was in that scene at the start of Prince Caspian. Sad, I know.**

* * *

The training gym was completely empty; so void of people, in fact, that I could hear my footsteps echoing, the sound of my own harsh breathing resonating off the walls. The Gamemakers were all sitting high up on their platform, picking away at a massive banquet. Few seemed to be paying attention.

Everything was perfectly organized. I'd half-expected that there would be arrows and knives sticking out of targets, sandbags for boxing split and destroyed on the floor, a fire still smoldering in the pit on the far side of the gym. But instead, all the weapons and tools were in their proper places as if I was the first of the tributes to go.

I walked over to the nearest weapon rack and selected a sword from the bunch. It was about the same length as Rhindon, but it was slightly heavier. I swung it a few times to adjust to its weight, and then looked up at the Gamemakers. Many of them were eyeing me, patiently waiting.

"Peter Pevensie," I announced loudly. "I'm from District 12." A few of them nodded, and looked at the strange tablet devices they held in their hands. Some weren't paying attention, but this was good enough.

I marched myself over to the nearest cluster of dummies and organized them at random intervals around me. Without any warning, I plunged the sword into the chest of one of them, yanked it out, and spun in a circle, effectively decapitating another. There were some approving sounds from the Gamemakers, but I didn't look at them. Instead, I swung blindly, trusting my instinct and experience as I killed each and every one of the dolls in various ways until finally there was a pile of dummy limbs on the floor around me. A few of my judges were clapping, but the rest were singing some sort of drinking song, arms linked, swaying back and forth. Infuriated, I threw down my sword and stormed over to the archery station.

There was a bow there, freshly strung, and a dozen arrows lined up. I gathered up the weapons, fitted one arrow to the string and drew back. I'd never been as good at archery as I was with a sword, but I figured now that I'd need all the help I could get. I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled and they the arrow fly. Not a second later, it struck the target, just mere centimetres from the center. Good enough.

Still, for good measure, I sent three more plunging into the target. All of them would be fatal shots, if I was aiming at a person instead of the plywood silhouettes we had for practice.

I'd earned the attention of a few more Gamemakers, so I headed to knife-throwing. I picked up two, and hurled them both simultaneously at two separate targets. The left-handed one went awry and missed, but the one I threw with my right hand buried itself deep in the target board, more or less where the tracing's abdomen would be. Excellent.

Finally, I went to the spear station. I wrapped my hand around the shaft of the weapon, lifted it over my shoulder and threw it as hard as I could. I'd done relatively well in spear-throwing during group training, so I expected it to take its head clean off, but my throw lacked power and instead buried itself in the dummy's chest, right through its collarbone.

At first I was a little embarrassed that I'd missed what I was aiming at, even if I'd fatally wounded it anyways. Then, upon glancing up at the Gamemakers, I realized that _they _didn't know I was trying to hit its head. About half of them were still paying attention, and they were clapping.

"Thank you, Peter Pevensie, for your demonstration," one of the Gamemakers announced. "You are dismissed."

Those who'd been watching immediately turned and began serving themselves from the buffet. Others were discussing a roast pig that had just been delivered to them. But I didn't care. I could've skipped out of the training gym, I felt so light and relieved. It was the happiest I'd been since our arrival in Panem, since I was reaped out of all the children from District 12.

I rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor, smiling the whole way. Getting a high score would mean sponsors, and sponsors would mean lasting more than a few days in the arena. I could win.

The elevator doors slid open. "Ah! Peter! How did it go?" Effie was sitting on the couch, holding some sort of book in her lap.

"Quite well, thank you, Effie," I replied, taking great care to be as polite as possible, knowing she liked that. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go and clean up before supper."

"Not at all, not at all." She waved her hand in the direction of my room.

I had no intention of taking a shower. I really just wanted to be by myself. I locked my door behind me, flopped down on the bed and began to think about how to keep myself alive.


	7. Speculation

**A/N: Chapter seven; here you go. Again, my apologies for making you wait two weeks.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia OR The Hunger Games.**

* * *

Nine.

I stared at the loopy curve of the number, too shocked to soak in the meaning. I had scored a _nine_. Only one short of that beast, Cato, who had threatened me only days ago in training.

"Congratulations!" Cinna cheered, clapping me on the shoulder. Portia patted my wrist. "Excellent work," she said. "That combined with Cinna and my _ingenious _costume design, you'll be completely unforgettable!"

"I believe I can work with this. Perhaps you're not done for after all!" Effie said decisively. I swear, the woman owns a book of awful things to say at inappropriate times.

Katniss even smiled a little, which was a great improvement over her usual scowl. "Good job," she said, and I was grateful for the normalcy in her praise. I even smiled a little. "Thank you."

"And finally," announced Caesar Flickerman, his deep voice resonating through the massive sound piece of the television, "Katniss Everdeen, female tribute from District Twelve."

Everyone in the room draws a collective breath as Caesar looks back down at his paper, pausing for a dramatic effect. Then, slowly, he enunciates every syllable of the word.

"E-le-ven."

The room erupted in sounds of praise. "Oh, well done!" Effie cheered. "Well done, both of you!" She clapped maniacally. Even Haymitch, who had been inebriated since noon, managed a grin. "Great job, sweetheart."

Katniss smiled even more. "Thanks."

"Congratulations," I said, because I felt she was entitled to it. However, I was mulling over how she could have pulled that off. She _was _very good in training, much better than me, but better than Cato? I could tell by her shrouded expression that she wasn't being fully honest. I guess we both had secrets to hide.

** 0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o **

Mentors were entitled to a private coaching session with their tributes the day of the interviews to prepare them for individual presentation. At ten o'clock sharp the next morning, Haymitch ordered Katniss and I into the main section of the District 12 floor, sat us down and began immediately. "We need to come up with an angle. For both of you."

I frowned a little. "Angle?"

"How we want the audience to see you. You know, funny, serious, aggressive, that sort of thing."

He'd made a list, actually, and I could tell by his handwriting that he hadn't been completely sober when he wrote it. He had me working the humble angle for the better half of an hour, throwing in and removing some dry wit, but none of it seemed to fit. Apparently I acted to proud and self-righteous, but not so to merit the use of sarcastic and cocky humour. I was too stern to be funny, but not enough to be officially titled serious.

Katniss had troubles, too. Haymitch didn't seem to think she was charming in the least and once referred to her as a deceased insect. That was the boiling point, I suppose, and shortly thereafter Haymitch suggested that she try the humble aspect, as I had. She didn't exceed in that area, either. He made her try out the proud demeanour, since her score was technically worthy of it whereas mine was good but not good enough.

After a good two hours, we were still on square one. Haymitch had ordered a litre of whiskey and was taking long pulls from the bottle at irregular intervals, clearly trying to think his way out of this situation. Neither Katniss nor I could be molded to conform into any one group.

He literally did not speak for nearly half an hour. Just by looking at him, I could tell he was visualising us from every aspect imaginable, and none of them seemed to click.

Finally, after three quarters of an hour of meticulous brainstorming, he sat up suddenly. "I've got it."

"Our angle?" I snapped out of my daydream in which I was back at home with Susan, Edmund and Lucy.

He held up his hands, a gesture for us to wait, and said, "Star-crossed lovers."

Katniss's reaction was immediate. "What? With him? No way!"

Though her outburst could have been seen as an insult to me, I paid no heed, but rather agreed with her. "That's not going to happen, Haymitch," I said carefully. "I barely even _know _her."

"Well, who cares?" Haymitch exclaimed. "It's all a show anyways. Real, not real, no one cares! They just want to be entertained!"

I exchanged a glance with Katniss, unconvinced of our mentor's motives. "But still, Haymitch," she said. "Peter's right. We don't know each other. Even if we _agreed _with this, how would we even _begin _to pretend that we _love each other_?" The last few words weren't so much said as spat.

"Well, that's why I'm here, isn't it, sweetheart?" Haymitch said pointedly. When he was still greeted with our incredulous gazes, he sighed. "Fine. You don't want to _pretend _to be in love for the audience and the audience _only_? It's your funeral." He slammed his bottle of whiskey onto the glass table. For a brief moment I thought it would shatter, but it held strong. Having made his point, he got up and began in the direction of the dining room.

"Wait!" Katniss called.

Haymitch froze, as if he was considering turning around. Finally, slowly, he did. "What do you want?"

"You really think that if we pretended to be in love with each other, we'd get more sponsors?" She asked.

"Of course, sweetheart. The people of the Capitol love nothing better than that kind of drama. They _live _year-round for it. I've seen my fair share of tributes die, and I'm telling you, this is your best shot." His words were those of sober man, wise beyond his years, not our drunken middle-aged mentor who, until now, showed nothing but apathy at whether we lived or died.

"Well, then," Katniss said cautiously, "I guess we have no choice." She looked to me next. "What do you think, Peter?"

I had little experience in the realm of romance. I'd seen countless suitors come through Cair Paravel, vying for Susan or Lucy's hand in marriage, and to them I'd always been the protective older brother. But I knew little about being in love, especially in this world. However, if this was my one and only shot at surviving the weeks to come, it would be spectacularly unfair to my family to let it bypass me.

"I agree," I answered finally. "It makes sense, I suppose."

Haymitch returned to his chair and snatched his whiskey once more. "Lots of planning to do, then," he said. "Better get started."


	8. Lover Boy

**A/N: Chapter eight for you! Thanks to those who reviewed!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia OR The Hunger Games.**

* * *

Against my will, I was handed over to my prep team for the final three hours before my interview. As usual, they began my removing the top layer of my skin. They gossiped the entire time, which I didn't mind, because at least they weren't talking to me.

"I do believe Elia plans to sponsor that little girl from eleven," Ophelia hissed to Tobias as they massaged some noxious substance into my hair to prevent it from moving when I moved my head. "Naturally, I told her it was a waste. That girl's odds are very much against her."

"But imagine the kind of money she would get if that girl won!" Lukas called from across the room, from where he was mixing lotions together.

_I'M RIGHT HERE_! I wanted to shout at them, but it would be uncouth of me, so instead I bit my tongue and said nothing.

"_Peter_!" Tobias yelled, truly yelled, as he grabbed my wrist. "_Fingernails_!"

I'd forgotten about not biting them. "Whoops." I mumbled.

"How am I supposed to make these presentable in an hour? They're hideous! It looks like you were in some kind of accident!"

_Yes, some kind of tragic accident that sheared off the ends of my fingernails_, I thought bitterly.

"Leave him be, Tobias." It's Cinna, standing in the doorway. I couldn't say why; it was just as surprising to me as it was to my prep team.

He was holding a large fabric bag in his arms, nearly as tall as me. "Are you nearly done?"

"Yes, Cinna," Ophelia said softly, collecting the last of her things and rushing from the room with the rest of my prep team, leaving Cinna and me alone.

"Aren't you supposed to be with Katniss?" I asked.

Cinna smiled faintly. "Yes, but unfortunately Portia is a bit . . . preoccupied at the moment. She asked if I could deliver your interview outfit" He held out the sack in his arms.

I slid off the table, tugging on the hem of the papery gown I was forced to wear so it stayed around me knees. I took the bag and pulled the zipper tab so it opened. Inside was a simple black shirt and pants, but I hardly noticed their presence at all. I was a bit preoccupied by the bejewelled red dress coat that lay nestled in the folds of the fabric. It was covered in what resembled tiny bits of shattered mirror so the slightest tilt and flames danced. It didn't entirely believe it was real – I ran my hand over it several time, feeling the smoothness of the minuscule gems, wondering how much it cost to make, counting all the things my family would have to sacrifice to afford such an expensive item of clothing.

"It's lovely," I whispered, finally acknowledging what Cinna and Portia had created for me.

"Well," Cinna replied dismissively, "Don't thank me. It was Haymitch's idea to make you and Katniss match."

I sighed wearily. I'd been drilled by Haymitch so I could recite my confession of false love in my sleep. But wouldn't identical outfits be a _little _too conspicuous? I supposed that Haymitch knew what he was doing, but how much can you trust an alcoholic?

"Oh. And Portia said to give you this." He handed me the timepiece my father gave me as a birthday present, the one I had to absent-mindedly referred to as my token on the train. "She had a huge argument with the Gamemakers about it. See, they prefer it when the tributes are disoriented about the time of day. Makes it more interesting. She said if it can't be used as a weapon, technically it has to be cleared."

I took the wristwatch. It felt heavy, as it always did, and the leather strap was nothing but familiar. I quickly fastened it to my arm.

"I'll leave you to your privacy," Cinna said. "Good luck."

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o 0o0**

"Caesar Flicker: live with the tributes!" The announcer's voice boomed over the radio system, but even at that impressive volume was drowned out by the euphoric roar of the crowd. All twelve of us tributes were led onto the stage, assaulted by bright flashing lights and little bits of paper that floated down from the rafters. Each of the chairs were positioned directly before a massive screen, which for the moment flashed red and pink lights to vibrant my eyes stung. I stumbled blindly to my seat, at the extreme left of the stage, as I would be the last to take my turn.

"Welcome!" Caesar shouted, and I was immediately alarmed by his outrageously blue hair and lips. He didn't appear to have any outright surgical modifications, but I knew from the assorted games I'd watched that they must have done something to make him look a great deal younger. He'd been doing the interviews in the 48th Hunger Games, a good twenty-six years ago, and he seemed to not have aged.

He wore a suit of velvet, dark like the night sky with small specks of light – by the Lion, were those _light bulbs_? – to add contrast. He cracked a few jokes to get the audience in the spirit of things before summoning the first tributes: Glimmer, from District 1.

Each tribute was granted an exact measure of three minutes to make a lasting impression on the sponsors, or so I was told. Three minutes could be regarded as very long or very short a time, and I was praying for the former. Still, it seemed as though I'd been staring at Caesar's glittering suit for only a moment, and when I looked up again the boy from four was embellishing his excellence at fishing.

I glanced over at Katniss. She was staring straight ahead, emotionless. I tried to copy her expression, but it was difficult in the absence of a mirror.

There was nothing particularly salient about the tributes from districts five through nine, truly, but I paid close attention to the boy from ten who looked very like Edmund. He was quiet, though quite obviously trying to steer conversation away from his lame leg. Perhaps he thought that if he could guide the audience's attention away from it, they would forget that it was there at all. He hinted that he had siblings, and that his mother had passed a few years prior, but he did not real explaining and when his buzzer sounded I could tell the crowd had all but erased him from their memory.

Katniss leaned forward in her seat when Rue from eleven was summoned. For someone so small, she came across quite strong. Caesar Flickerman helped her to aggrandise the seven she'd scored. Thresh acted as though he was angry during his interview; several of his answers were undecipherable grunts or one-word replies. Then they called Katniss.

I truly loathed public speaking and during my reign in Narnia I avoided it like the plague. I listened attentively to the carefully-planned conversation as Katniss retold the moment she volunteered for her sister, feeling awful. I was going to forget what I was going to say, I was sure of it.

Katniss stood and demonstrated her reflective dress, the one that matched my coat, by twirling over and over and over, which did not help my already unsteady stomach. She bantered with Caesar for a while, giving the best pleasant impression she could for someone so sullen.

At the end of Katniss's interview, I was too preoccupied thinking about how I would quite probably be sick to hear the buzzer sound, so when Caesar announced my name I leaped from my seat out of surprise and surprise alone.

Teetering on unsteady legs, I made my way to the chair of the interviewee, sat down, and dried my palms on the sides of my pant legs.

"So, Peter," Caesar said easier, smiling at the audience. "What do you think of the Capitol?"

I bit back my impulse to reply with the obvious – it was terrible. Instead, I drew from memory the response Haymitch instructed me to use. "It's so _clean_."

Caesar laughed as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, and by default, the audience laughed as well. I tried to smile, but it felt a more like a grimace.

"Now, in all seriousness, Peter, you scored phenomenally in training. Any hint to your success?" Caesar raised his eyebrows.

I knew that I was not to tell anyone what I did in my private training session, not even your escort or mentor or _anything_, though from the yelling that followed Katniss's return to the floor the other day led me to believe she'd done something less than satisfactory. Still, anyone seeing her score would think otherwise.

I smiled casually, and shrugged. It felt forced, much to forced. "I don't know. I guess I must have done _something _right, but honestly it was all a blur." I stole a quick glance up at the Gamemakers, who were nodding their approval.

"So," Caesar said, diving back in. "Did anyone come to see you after the reaping?"

Haymitch had prepared me for this, too, but I did not want to tell this crowd of bloodthirsty Capitol citizens about my family. "Yes," I replied softly. "My brother, Edmund, and my sisters, Susan and Lucy."

"I see. And what did they say to you, Peter?" Caesar's eyes were full of concern, but I knew better than to trust him.

"That I'd always keep them safe," I said. "And that I would really try to come home."

There were a couple of seconds of respectful silence, for I would most likely die soon.

Caesar asked, "Any other visitors."

"No," I replied.

"No girlfriend or anything of the sort?" Caesar asked, acting bewildered. "Why, I don't believe that for a heartbeat. Surely there must be some girl?"

_Here we go_. "Well . . . there is _one _girl . . ." I mumbled.

"Oh, do tell." Caesar clasped his hands together, pleading.

I pretended to laugh it off. "She doesn't even know I'm alive."

"Oh, but she _will_, Peter," Caesar told me. "If you win, she won't have an excuse in the world to turn you down."

I picked at my cuticle again, assuming it would only help with the love-struck boy act. "I, ah, I don't think that would really help me out all that much. At all, in fact."

"How so?" Caesar was mystified.

I could Haymitch's slurring chant inside my head; _say it, Pevensie, SAY IT!_

"Well, because she came here with me."

The audience did the math in less than an instant, crying out in mixtures of joy an outrage. I caught a glimpse of myself on the screen – it looked authentic, with my face and neck flushed a bright pink, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

I was filled with a sudden, unbridled rage. Haymitch was right – they didn't care in the least that our lives were on the line for their entertainment. They only wanted the show.

Well, then, they deserved this cruel – albeit false – twist. Let them be upset that we will die, or at the very least one of us. Let them feel anything besides excitement at our slaughter.


	9. Nursery Rhymes

**A/N: Yeah, I have no excuse as to why this took six months for me to post.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia OR The Hunger Games**

* * *

The second-hand on my watch ticked at an immeasurably slow pace. Midnight, half past, one in the morning; each minute was longer than the one it was preceded by. No matter what I did, sleep continued to elude me.

It was not particularly surprising. Nerves – I was well accustomed to them after so many nights before battle, but never had there been so much doubt plaguing my mind. I was good, I had scored a nine, but there were those who were much larger and far better than me. It was likely that I would be stone dead in the morning.

I sat up. That is no way to be thinking, I told myself. In the Battle of Beruna, we had marched into an army superior to us and still come out the victors. I was confident that I would triumph. I had to.

Certain that I would be unable to sleep, I threw back the bedclothes and padded quietly out of the room.

The rest of the floor was dark and quiet, but bright lights from the city below us bled through the enormous windows and illuminated the sitting room. It took me a moment to notice Katniss, sitting in an armchair bathed in the false orange light. She clutched a mug in her hands, looking quite troubled.

"What are you still doing awake?" I inquired, approaching cautiously. She glanced up to acknowledge me, but looked a little peeved at being disturbed. "I could ask you the same thing."

"I couldn't get to sleep."

Katniss nodded once. "There you have your answer." She sipped at her beverage, staring off through the window. Curiously enough, she was not watching the masses of people celebrating in the streets, but rather eyeing the horizon with a look of almost bliss.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

She appeared as though I had woken her from a pleasant dream, shaking her head to rid her mind of the lingering thoughts. "Nothing. I was just thinking of home . . . it was stupid. Never mind."

I sat down on the couch and folded my hands in my lap. "I don't think it's stupid at all," I assured her. "In fact, I think of home all the time."

She frowned. "Where _is _your home, anyways?"

I was a little surprised at her question. "District 12, of course," I answered hastily.

"But it's not, though. I haven't seen you act the littlest bit upset about being here. You're more . . . _curious_. And besides, you don't talk like the rest of us."

I considered lying, I truly did. But there was something about the way Katniss stared at me that truly conveyed to me that she would see through any fabrication I could dream up. So instead, I opened my mouth, and I started to speak.

I couldn't really justify why I told her the truth. Maybe it was because I figured that I had little left to lose, or possibly because I just needed to tell _someone _that I didn't understand what was going on.

Katniss listening, however, hands folded under her chin and elbows resting on her knees. She made no interjection as I recounted the old Professor's wardrobe and the White Witch. In fact, she almost seemed to be enjoying my recount. I liked to think she was picturing herself there now, instead of in this awful place.

Unfortunately, I had to skip over much of our time in Narnia, seeing as if I told her of all of it, we would be in the sitting room until noon at least, and we were not so abundantly gifted with time. If my watch was correct, we had a little less than four hours, as if was quarter past three.

After a quarter of an hour, I had explained most of how we spent many years in Narnia and returned to England by mistake whilst hunting the White Stag. I was about to move on to how I had arrive in Panem and my presence in the games was a misunderstanding, but she interrupted me before I had the chance.

"That was really believable, Peter. You're an great story-teller." Her mouth crept up into a half-smile, which had to be the most delighted I'd even seen her.

I opened my mouth to protest against her assumptions, but she halted me again. "If you make it back, story-telling should be your talent. You know, write a book or something." She glanced upwards at the clock fixed to the wall. "I should be going back to bed now." She placed her mug on the end table and walked out of the good. "Good night," she said to me as she drifted past.

After a short moment of contemplation, I returned to my bed as well, a little discouraged that she had ignored the truth in my story, but it was understandable. If I hadn't been to Narnia, I would have thought it to be made-up myself.

Anxiety still filled me, like a disease. I could think of nothing but the upcoming battle, one in which I would be my own army and would be forced to injure other children and could quite possibly die myself. Yet, despite this, I at last found sleep and plummeted into the darkness and peace-of-mind it brought.


	10. The Games

**Here's chapter 10. I'll try and update more frequently now that I'm getting to the exciting part.**

**Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Narnia OR The Hunger Games.**

* * *

I was roused at seven o'clock in the morning by Portia, who attempted to replicate Effie's high voice as she announced to me, "It's a _big _day!" It lacked the verve that our escort typically conveyed with it.

When I didn't respond to her greeting, she said, "Change into these. I'll wait in the hall." With that, she set something down on the bed and left.

I sat up. Laid across the bedclothes were a simple shirt and pants – I'd heard from Haymitch the day before that our final dressings would take place in the catacombs beneath the arena shortly before the beginning of the games. I didn't like the idea of being underground, but it wasn't as if I had much of a choice.

I changed into the clothing, and shortly thereafter Portia lead me to the roof. Haymitch was standing near to the exit of the stairwell, waiting for me. "Give a minute," he said sharply, and Portia immediately backed away like a frightened animal.

"Haymitch, what—"

"Just shut up and listen. We you get in there, they'll have all sorts of things laid out for you in the Cornucopia. Weapons, provisions, that kind of thing. I want you to listen to me very carefully." To my surprise, he was sober. He stared into my eyes with a manic intensity that gave me the urge to flee after Portia.

"All right," I replied as confidently as I could manage, given my situation.

"Do not, under _any _circumstances, go for _any _of it. It's how they like to kick things off – with a bloodbath. I'll put it this way: if you run for a nice shiny weapon on the top of the pile, you'll die. I don't care how fast you are."

His advice seemed intelligent enough, but I began to wonder about how I would manage this if I lacked a weapon or any sort of supplies.

Almost reading my thoughts, Haymitch added, "Just run. Get out of there, and find water. You're smart, Peter. You can do this."

I sucked in a deep breath to calm my nerves. "All right," I said. "Thank you."

He gave me a slight shove. "Go. Stay alive."

I walked hastily across the roof to meet Portia, who was standing with her neck craned towards the sky. Seemingly out of nowhere, a strange oblong plane appeared and hovered above us.

"What is _that_?" I demanded immediately.

Portia looked at me as if I had gone mad. "It's a hovercraft, Peter. Honestly, what do they teach you in District 12?"

A ladder descended from this alleged 'hovercraft', and Portia nodded towards it. With a tentative hand, I grasped the rung. The moment both me feet were planted firmly upon it, a paralysing force struck me and I could not move.

I would have shouted in alarm if I had been permitted to speak, but even opening my mouth was an impossibility. I was lifted upwards, into the belly of the hovercraft, where I was met by a physician of some sort with a massive syringe.

"Peter, this is your tracker. We'll be able to keep tabs on you in the arena." With that, she stabbed the sharp end into my forearm and pressed the plunger.

Once the needle was withdrawn, I was released from the strange grip of the ladder and Portia was quickly exfiltrated from the roof. The hovercraft lurched forward suddenly, and I tripped and nearly fell.

"Careful now," Portia warned. "Wouldn't want you going into the arena already injured, now would we?"

I followed her down a narrow corridor to a compartment in which there was breakfast. I was once again reminded that it was 'all at my disposal', though that did not quell the anxiety that turned my stomach. I settled on a small buttered roll and retreated to the corner to gnaw on it.

I did not speak for the duration of the trip; not when Portia tried to strike up a conversation, not when the windows darkened and most certainly not as we descended down a ladder into the underground tunnels that ran beneath the arena. We were directed to what was referred to as my 'Launch Room', from which I would be sent into the arena.

"Why don't you take a shower, Peter? I'll tell you, there usually isn't much

An attendant arrived shortly after with my clothing, made of thin and water-resistant material I had only just begun to grow accustomed to. Portia ran her hand over the fabric and nodded approvingly. "This'll reflect your body heat," she told me. "I assume the Gamemakers have some chilly nights in store for you lot."

I dressed slowly, as my hands were shaking. This nervousness was quite familiar to me after years of experience in battle, but I had never grown used to it. This was worse, however, at some subliminal level. I supposed it was because these weren't enemies but rather _children_, and because I was alone. Each time I had ridden into battle prior to this Edmund had been there, and Susan not far behind with the line. This would be the first time that I faced such violence in the bitterness of solitude.

"Do you have your token?" Portia asked as I sat in a chair, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees. I nodded, refusing to indulge her with my words, and extended my wrist for her to see the timepiece.

"Good. It was very difficult for me to get that cleared for you, you know. The prefer it when you don't know what time it is."

"I know," I said finally. "Cinna spoke to me about it last night." It was amusing, how long ago that seemed.

"Yes, I expected he would," Portia replied. "Would you like something to eat?"

I shook my head. Though I would likely regret it later, I was feeling far too ill to even _think_ about food.

I could feel time growing short, my judgement based on Portia's increasingly desperate pleas for me to eat, and as this happened I began to wonder, not for the first time, why we had been sent here. In Narnia, we had served a purpose – freeing the country from the chains of the White Witch and thereby fulfilling the ancient prophecy involving two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve. But why here? Why would Aslan send me to die and my family to forever be trapped in this hostile world?

Suddenly, a smooth voice filled the room: "Tributes, please prepare for launch."

Fear blossomed again in my chest, doubling again and again. I was going to die. I didn't have an army, or Oreius and his strategic plans, or my little brother. I would be lucky to survive the day, but to win? It was impossible, undoable.

"Peter, it's time for you to go," Portia said, but I didn't react. I couldn't move, I couldn't think of anything but my impending doom, and how this wasn't a _battle_, it was an _execution_ . . .

"Come on, Peter." Portia took me by the arm and forcibly guided me towards a metal plate on the far side of the chamber. She pushed me onto it, and then squeezed my shoulder in a reassuring manner. "You're smart. You can do this."

A clear cylinder descended from the ceiling, and Portia stepped back as it came between us. I pressed my hands against it as if to test its strength, and as I did so the plate on which I stood began to rise.

This was it. I was dead, then. I closed my eyes and tried to get a grip on my rapid heart rate by breathing in and out, slow and even, but I couldn't manage it.

I felt a cool breeze on my face, and I opened my eyes to see an enormous metal Cornucopia, and beyond that a mixed woodland and a lake.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 74th Hunger Games begin!" The voice crackled throughout the air, flowing out from an unknown origin. I had been told previously that we were to stay on our plates until we heard a gong, but the consequences of refusing to heed to warning I did not know. I elected that it would be wise to stay where I was. Of course, there was always the possibility that I could faint.

All the tributes were in a ring around this Cornucopia, evenly spaced on their plates in the grass. I saw Katniss a few to my left, the boy from 10 who resembled Edmund a couple to my right, and even Cato, who was nearly obscured from my view by the pile of riches at the mouth of the horn.

For a moment, I felt hope. There were some things spread away from the central pile, like a few knapsacks and food items. I could collect something without hurtling right into the thick of it, and perhaps I would stand a better chance.

The gong then rung out, and it began.


	11. Flight or Fight Response

**I'm posting this so soon after the last chapter because I have NaNoWriMo starting on Monday and I probably won't be able to update. I'll try, but in case I can't, here's chapter 11.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia OR The Hunger Games.**

* * *

For a brief instant, perhaps less than a second, I was delayed by instinctual surprise. I can't say as much for the other tributes, who launched forwards without missing a beat. The instant I could gather my thoughts, I dug the soles of my boots against the metal plate and leapt from my own starting point, only I aimed my trajectory away from the massacre that was beginning.

The forest. That's where I knew I should go. The trees there would provide me with some concealment, and the knowledge I retained from training could give me nourishment. If only I had a weapon – I could outlast the others.

I sprinted towards the woods at a speed I had not previously known myself capable of. In my periphery, I could see fighting at the mouth of Cornucopia. Some of the Career tributes had climbed the pile and were now defending their riches from there.

_Don't look back_, I told myself, and when I faced forwards I caught sight of a large black knapsack sitting directly in my path.

Haymitch told me not to go after anything, but it was _right there_ . . .

I extended my arm towards the ground, snatching the straps up in my fist without once breaking stride. The forest was nearing, and for a moment it seemed as if I would make it unimpeded.

Then, our of the corner of my eye I noticed a boy lumbering towards me, flailing a short blade. Her wasn't particularly large and lacked an air of danger about him, but he was armed and I would not take chances. Grabbing a strap with both hands, I whirled the knapsack around and caught him broadside across the head. He was thrown to the ground, the small sword skidding to a stop across the grass. I lunged for it, and wheeled it around to it point at him.

It was Edmund. No, the boy from who looked so very like him. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. I gripped the blade with two hands, the backpack hanging from my arm, and pointed the tip right at his chest.

_Do it_, I told myself. _You must! If you don't, there will be another one to worry about!_

But I couldn't. He was no longer a threat to me, simply a small, crippled boy. He stared up at me with pleading brown eyes, ones that reminded me so of Edmund when he was trying to manipulate me into doing favours for him. I couldn't slaughter my own brother any more than this boy here. It was cruel, it was _wrong_. It was so wrong.

"Run!" I yelled at the boy. "Go! Get out of here!" I did not stay to see if he had managed to stand up again and flee; I slung the knapsack over my shoulder and dashed into the cover of trees.

I didn't slow, not for what seemed like a long time, until my lungs felt as though they were on fire and I could scarcely stand anymore. I slumped against a tree, gasping for air, and slid down to its base.

I could have slept, but it was the constant fear of the others that kept my eyes open. Instead of surrendering to my fatigue, I slipped the knapsack off and placed it in my lap to examine its contents.

It was held shut by a flap that fastened over the top, and beneath that a cord that tightened it shut. I opened it up, and the first thing I tugged out was a line of rope. Beneath that was a cooking pot, a canister of water, some granola-like food, biscuits, a hat, a blanket made out of a thick material, a spare pair of socks and few other assorted items.

Eagerly, I opened the canister drank three large mouthfuls of water before thinking better of it. I had yet to find a source to replenish it, and until then it was all I had to go on.

Glancing at my wristwatch, I saw that I had survived the first hour, but that gave me little encouragement. All I had done was hit someone with a piece of luggage and run into the forest. I wasn't even that far from the Cornucopia, really. In fact, it was likely that another tribute, if not more, had come into the trees after me. They could show up at any moment.

Slowly, as I regained my energy, I repacked the knapsack, fit the sword into my belt and began to walk in the opposite direct from which I had come. The farther away from the rest of the tributes, the better.

As I walked, I began to wonder where Cato was, and if he had followed me. I could still hear his threat in my head from back in the Training Centre. It felt so long ago, but in reality it was merely a few short days.

But I had other concerns. I didn't have much food, and soon I would need to stop and rest. I continued to work steadily away from the Cornucopia and the bloodbath, hiking deeper and deeper in the woodland. Several times I paused, listening intently – I was certain that I had heard other footsteps creeping through the underbrush. They were faint, or eerily quiet, as they felt as if they nearby. Perhaps I was imagining things.

As the shadows grew long, a banging sound rung out, echoing through the forest. I stopped cold and searched for its cause, panicked that one of the tributes had caught up with me. It wasn't for an agonizing moment that I remembered the cannons the Gamemakers used to signify the death of a tribute. The initial boom was followed by another, and another and another and another, until, by my count, they reached eleven. I supposed this meant that the fighting had stopped at the Cornucopia, which wasn't a particularly encouraging thought. I could imagine the Careers picking through their spoils, gearing up for the hunt. I forced myself to suppress my fear, but still it loomed at the back of my mind.

As the sun set, I found a small hollow shrouded by some tree roots and the thick underbrush and decided it was time to stop for the night. At a certain point, there was only so much distance I could put between myself and my competitors before I would have to turn and fight. Anyways, it was fairly hidden and I was a light sleeper – it was the safest place that I would be able to find before dark.

As darkness fell, the anthem of Panem began to play aloud throughout the arena, and the country's seal appeared in the sky. The light fell through the leaves, illuminating the forest floor – still it was difficult to make out the images of the dead tributes through the branches above me. From the pictures, I judged that five girls and seven boys were killed today, that Cato was still alive, but so was Katniss, the tributes from District 11 she had taken interest in and the boy from 10. If I had thought a little different earlier, his face would be illuminating the sky tonight. For whatever reason, the news of his survival made me feel a little bit better.

Now that the darkness was complete, I longed to be anywhere but here. I wondered where my family was, back in the horrible district from which I had been drawn. What did they do with children who had no parents? I began to worry about them. How accommodating a world that puts children to death for sport be?

_Aslan, keep them safe_, I think to myself as I drift off . . .

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o 0o0o0o0o0o0o0**

I was awakened suddenly by the sound of footsteps creeping through the undergrowth. I listened for a moment, paralysed with fear, judging there to be at least three or four of them. I grabbed the hilt of my sword and turned towards the direction from which I heard the sound. With a wave of relief, I recognized that they were not coming after me – something else had caught their attention.

Far to me left, there was light. I knew that it was not yet dawn – I could feel it in the air – but this was firelight. A tribute had lit up a fire in the dead of night, after the Careers had had the chance to catch up with us. Brilliant.

I could see as their shadows as they descended upon the tribute – a girl, from the sound of her cries – and I could see their knife glint in the light as they raised it and brought it down. Once they were done, I could hear them laughing. _Laughing_. This made me furious. It was bad enough that we were subjected to this, forced to kill each other, but to take _pleasure _in it . . .

"What was that?" one of them demanded. I froze, trying to figure out if I had made any sound that would have alerted them of my presence. Had I moved? Perhaps, but not much. But was it even me that they were talking about? I hadn't previously known there to be another tribute in my vicinity – maybe there were more.

"It came from over there," said another, and I heard footsteps walk back towards me.

_Oh, no_, I thought. _Please, Aslan, no_.

Whoever it was then stopped walking. Cautiously, I dared to look up. In the darkness, I could make out a tallish boy, not the one from District 2, holding a long, curved blade, his shoes mere inches from my head.


End file.
